


The Good Life (Remix of "It Takes Two")

by kelly_chambliss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Female-Centric, Light BDSM, POV Alternating, Remix, top minerva
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-10
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelly_chambliss/pseuds/kelly_chambliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the third Wednesday of every month, Minerva McGonagall and Rita Skeeter have a standing appointment to meet at the Hog's Head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good Life (Remix of "It Takes Two")

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["It Takes Two"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/10742) by Miss Morland. 



Minerva McGonagall's wand swished through the air so quickly that if Rita had not been watching for the movement, she would never have seen it -- she would simply have found herself flat on her back, her wrists tied to the bedposts with (predictably) scarlet-and-gold scarves. 

But the truth was, Rita _had_ been watching for the wand flick; she'd engineered it, in fact, though she took care to keep her lover ignorant of this point. (Not that their relationship was about love, of course -- far from it. But if "lover" wasn't quite the accurate term. . .well, not even in the privacy of her own head could Rita manage to think of Professor McGonagall as a "fuck-buddy.")

None of this was relevant at the moment, however; Rita had more immediate things on her mind. 

She smirked up at McGonagall, who was looking back at her in triumph. Rita didn't mind -- if the professor (mmmmm, how Rita loved using that title) wanted to think she was in charge, Rita was content to let her think so. . .for now, anyway. 

But it was Rita Skeeter who was in control. Of course.

It was gratifying to have power over someone like McGonagall, who was a strong woman in her own right: good at magic, good at her job, good in bed. Rita wouldn't have been here otherwise, sprawled on dingy sheets amid the dust of a Hog's Head quickie room -- because contrary to rival reporters' jealous claims, she didn't fuck just anyone. She had standards.

And McGonagall definitely met them. Yes, she was good. It was just that Rita was better.

The professor was now eyeing her with an expression that had would have had Rita shivering in anticipation had she been the sort of person who couldn't hide her reactions. But since she was not that sort of person, she scowled instead -- part of the plan to let McGonagall think she'd gained the upper hand.

McGonagall frowned. "You're late," she had snapped when Rita had arrived for their rendezvous, and now, she returned to that complaint.

"In _my_ job," she announced, tapping her wand against her palm as she approached the bed, "we do not tolerate lateness. Is that clear, Miss Skeeter?"

Rita nearly did shiver then, before sinking back against the pillows to let the silken scarves bite deliciously into her wrists. With a twist of her shoulders, she dislodged her robes to reveal her breasts, something she knew from experience that the dear professor found quite distracting.

"Well," she said, "I'm just a naughty girl, Professor. . ."

*******

Rita hadn't been late at all, of course, and if McGonagall hadn't spent so many years imprisoned with hundreds of snotty-nosed brats, she might have realised that there were far more interesting rules to break than those of punctuality.

Like those silly conventions that would have one believe that a closed door meant privacy.

Rita had arrived at the Hog's Head a good quarter of an hour before their arranged assignation (the third Wednesday of every month, without fail; McGonagall lived and breathed by schedules). She'd slipped past dotty old Aberforth tending bar and made it unseen to the upper floor with its grotty, no-questions-asked hired rooms. ("Absolutely no refunds after fifteen minutes!" snarled Ab's picture from a sign posted next to each door.)

Once upstairs, she'd muttered a spell to reveal a secret that few knew of: each of Ab's upper rooms could be spied on through a niche of magically-expanded but hidden space.

It had cost Rita quite a lot in bribes and favours to wheedle this information out of that reprobate Mundungus Fletcher, but it had been worth every knut. Professionally, she'd used the niches many times, since she usually found it safer not to assume her beetle form at the Hog's Head, where bug-squashing was practically a professional sport. And personally. . .well, she often enjoyed the chance to keep an unnoticed eye on her professorial lover, too. 

No one had been more surprised than Rita when she realised that her arrangement of convenience with McGonagall had turned into something of an addiction. She'd begun the business partly for the sheer glorious irony of it (who'd have imagined that starchy, stuffy old McGoogles was into bondage with women?) and partly for the opportunity it offered for a spot of judicious blackmail. (Rita didn't shirk from that word; as a writer, she always preferred _le mot juste_ , at least in her head. Euphemisms [unless they involved bespectacled lovers] were for print.)

The blackmail had been a non-starter, though -- before she'd tied Rita up literally, McGonagall had tied her up metaphorically with so many secrecy spells and blabbermouth curses that Rita was barely able to mention the bloody woman's name in public. (Of course, McGonagall had only managed the spells because Rita had been younger then, and unprepared; anyone who tried to catch her out like that today would be hexed blind.)

As for the sexual irony -- well, the real irony turned out to be that prim Professor McGonagall was the best lay Rita had ever had, and she ended up wanting the professor as much as the professor clearly wanted her. They were both just too damned good at what they did, that was the long and short of it. And Rita always found competence arousing.

But addicted or not, she was still in control, and she proved it to herself with these little forays into the secret spaces of the Hog's Head. 

Today, from her vantage point in the magic niche, she had watched McGonagall march briskly into their usual room, her spectacles and spinsterly bun firmly in place. 

In place for the moment, anyway. Later, it would be a different story, and Rita spared a moment to savour the mental image of McGonagall with her hair down, naked and panting and at Rita's mercy.

Such pleasant imaginings filled the minutes until the agreed-upon meeting time had come and gone. Almost immediately, the professor became impatient, striding about the seedy room like a caged lioness. (A trite image, Rita admitted, but an apt one.)

All was going according to plan. Rita enjoyed making McGonagall wait, putting her off-balance, bringing out that famed Scottish temper; she enjoyed the way her arousal grew inside her as she watched the professor pace, her own heat obviously building, until she flung off her outer robe with a growl of irritation.

Rita couldn't help rubbing herself a bit through her robes as she took in the sight of McGonagall's corset-clad body, the lean black-stockinged legs and the high heels. The tightly-laced corset lifted the familiar small breasts enticingly, and Rita liked to watch as they rose and fell with the professor's increasingly angry breaths.

She'd stayed in her hiding place while McGonagall, muttering in annoyance, donned her robes again and began tossing her accoutrements into her teaching satchel. One by one, they disappeared into the bag: the red leather collar that she sometimes buckled around Rita's neck and sometimes was forced to clasp around her own, the well-oiled little crop, the thin golden chains ending in delightfully wicked goblin-made clamps.

Rita had waited until the professor was ready to leave; then she'd cancelled the charm that created the magic niche and sauntered to the door as if she'd just arrived.

"You're late!" McGonagall snapped. 

Her colour was high and her breathing delectably ragged. She'd look good in the collar today, Rita thought, feeling a surge of heat spread through her. It was fun to be on top when McGonagall was angry; her submission was all the more satisfying when it was reluctant.

But it had been a tense week in the reporting business, and Rita felt the need to let go. Kick back, leave the decisions to someone else. Be a good little sub -- for _this_ month, anyway. There'd be plenty of opportunity next month to have McGonagall on her knees.

The professor, meanwhile, was still ranting. "I told you my schedule was extremely busy this week, did I not?" she demanded.

Rita affected nonchalance. "Well, so is mine. Some of us actually have _careers_ , you know," she said with deliberate provocation, and tossed her cloak onto a chair.

She'd trusted that this little display of dismissiveness would push McGonagall over the edge, and she was not mistaken.

That's when the professor's wand had flashed, and Rita had found herself on her back.

Perfect. Just what she'd wanted, just what she'd planned. She was in charge, and life was good.

*******

Minerva drew a deep breath and brought her anger under control. There was something very calming about standing over a deliciously helpless Rita Skeeter, especially when the minx probably believed that she was the one who had stage-managed their current scene.

Well, if Skeeter wanted to think she was in charge, that she could push Minerva into following whatever silly plan she'd concocted, then Minerva was content to let her believe it. 

The little hack (for so Minerva liked to think of her) was wrong, of course. There was no topping from the bottom in Professor McGonagall's domain, thank you very much, whether that domain was classroom or bedroom -- a lesson that her more perceptive students and lovers learnt very quickly. 

But Skeeter, despite her cleverness, had never been terribly perceptive; she was too blinded by her belief in her own superiority. It was a weakness, to be sure, and one that suited Minerva quite well; she had no objection to her lovers having less wit than she.

At least Skeeter was bright enough, though, for there Minerva drew the line. She would accept no stupid bed-mates. She had to deal with enough of what Severus would call "dunderheads" in ordinary life (and they weren't all students). Thus when it came to sexual partners, she required a certain amount of intelligence.

Skeeter met this standard, and she also brought several qualities that, as Minerva admitted to herself, were rather addictive: she was. . .inventive. And not averse to the occasional controlled risk. And perhaps best of all, she had stamina.

Minerva turned her full attention to the nicely-tethered form before her, and Skeeter, noticing, gave a wriggle, letting her robes fall open to reveal that she wore nothing beneath. 

Minerva's breath hitched at the same time that she put another black tick against Skeeter's name in her mental record book: for a Slytherin, Skeeter always showed a regrettable lack of subtlety.

"I'm just a naughty girl, Professor," Skeeter said. "Perhaps you should punish me."

Typical cheek, thought Minerva, shrugging out her own robes and slowly running a deliberate hand along the top of her black corset. Let the little hack be reminded of the difference between the crass obviousness of nudity and the suggestive power of judicious concealment. By the time Minerva would choose to bare her own body, la Skeeter was going to be mewling and desperate.

"Punish you? Perhaps I should," Minerva said, using her wand to add a green-and-silver gag to the hack's ensemble. "And next time, perhaps you should watch your back a little more carefully when you activate the spy cubbyhole. Aberforth, as I'm certain you've noticed, is not the most diligent of landlords, and I fear he hasn't upgraded the invisibility spells in quite some time."

Skeeter's eyes widened satisfactorily, and Minerva permitted herself a small smile as she _accio_ 'd her trusty riding crop.

She did not consider herself a self-indulgent woman; life was a serious business, and one could not afford to distract oneself with too much pleasure.

Yet as long as it was carefully regulated, a certain amount of pleasure was not unhealthy, and if it could be combined with one's duty to teach the younger generation some lessons in self-control and in the ineffectiveness of trying to fool their smarter elders, so much the better.

Yes, life was a serious and difficult business.

But, Minerva reflected as she let the crop trail lightly across Rita Skeeter's breasts, sometimes it could be very good indeed.


End file.
